My tongue is tied
Title: Beginnings and Ends
Fandom/Verse: Among the Ashes
Characters/Pairings: Micheal/Ashley, Ivy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine.
Note: Can I just say I love that the one pairing I don't have claimed for something keeps talking to me? Silly muses. Oh well, not dwelling because they're shiny new toys. Okay, off to go read Twilight and try to contain my squees of joy. Oh and Ashley is a lovely name, really it is.
If you ask me when it all started, I probably couldn’t tell you. That would be like asking me: “When did you know your name?”, or “When did you learn how to breathe?” It’s just one of those things I just know, something I’ve always known deep down to the marrow of my bones.
I’ve always been in love with this boy who made me short stacks of peanut butter pancakes and held spur-of-the-moment midnight ice cream pig outs with me under a Strawberry Shortcake comforter I had long since outgrown.
There was nothing more perfect than sitting there with vanilla creaminess numbing my tongue, secrets tumbling off of it as easily as the rain trickled down my windowpanes on those cold rainy nights.
Well, maybe not all my secrets…
I can tell you when everything changed, when I realized that one day it just might stop and I’d have to share those secrets with someone else.
It was spaghetti night. Yeah, I know what you‘re thinking. You’re thinking that normal people don’t have spaghetti night, and I probably would be inclined to agree with you if it hadn’t been one of our traditions for as long as I could remember.
You see, Maggie had this thing about improving herself. It wasn’t like she was a bad person, or anything; she just liked learning everything she could, every way she could. Talk shows, self help books with squeaky clean gurus on the covers, classes at the local community college, these were her tools for sculpting a better Margaret Taylor.
The way Michael tells it, spaghetti night started when I was three and he was six. Maggie took a class on Italian cuisine and despite the fact that she got a C, (a travesty she still complains about to this day) she learned to make a pretty mean pasta dish.
Of course, Michael and I like to say that it’s the only thing she knows how to make, but that’s a whole other issue.
On this particular spaghetti night, I was camped in front of the TV watching some ancient Friends rerun, cringing whenever Rachel made an appearance.
“You know, I’ll never understand that,” Michael said, reaching for a handful of popcorn from the bowl of popcorn in my lap. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and I took it as an opportunity to sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. He looked good, not that was a change, but I bet you can probably tell that I’m biased by now.
His shirt was new, but if you want my opinion, a little too preppy. Thin green pinstripes against a crisp white shirt may have worked for some yuppie at Princeton or Yale, but not my Michael. He was a modern day James Dean, after all.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle, or a leather jacket, but he was every bit as handsome, and dreamed just as big.
“Understand what?”
“You, and your irrational Jennifer Aniston hate. She’s America’s sweetheart, you know.”
I snorted, snatching my bowl back. “Could be America’s sweetheart too, if I had as much crap done as she’s had.”
He laughed, ruffling my hair. “You are so weird. And why are you even eating that crap, it’s-”
“Spaghetti night,” I filled in. “I know, I just felt like popcorn.” I shook the bowl a little, holding it out. “I saved you all the good pieces, you know I only like the burnt ones.”
“See, this is why I love you.”
We shared a smile, and he reached over, his thumb brushing the side of my hand accidentally. Lucky for me, the doorbell rang and I had a moment to shake off some (not exactly unpleasant) tingles and remember how to breathe.
“Oh good,” he said, rising from the couch. “She’s here.”
“Did Mags need to get some more milk or something?”
“Even better.” He grinned, kissing my hair. “I think you’re really gonna like her, Ivy.”
My mouth went dry, and the popcorn was suddenly about as appetizing as chalk.
Screw the remembering how to breathe thing because I had already forgotten how to.
The door squeaked open and a girl walked in. A tall, skinny, beautiful girl that I already hated even before she opened her mouth and showed off perfectly white teeth that were practically toothpaste commercial material.
“Ivy? This is my girlfriend, Ashley.”
Let me just say that Ashley has got to be the most unimaginative name ever. I looked it up once, and trust me it is. It apparently means “an ash tree meadow”. How dull is that? Yeah, I know this is coming from a girl with yet another lame plant name, but I never said mine was any better. It’s just…
Have you ever noticed that there are just too many Ashleys?
I mean seriously, think about it. How many Ashleys do you know?
I bet one springs to mind, and I bet she’s probably annoying. Maybe she even thinks she’s clever, a standout from the millions of other Ashleys because she spells it some insane cracked out way, like Ashlee or Ashleigh, but deep down you really know she’s just like all the others.
God, sorry about my little rant there, especially if you're an Ashley, and if that’s the case, I’m sure you’re lovely. But so was this Ashley (Ashley Anders if you want to get technical), and that was the really irritating part.
“Ivy!” She gushed, throwing her arms around me and drawing out the last syllable like she had an entire millennium to say it.
I must have gasped out of shock (or horror) at this complete stranger hugging me like she was my long lost sister and we were on the Maury show, because she quickly let go and blushed adorably (not at all like my splotchy tomato like bouts of embarrassment).
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. It’s just… Mikey talks about you so often, I feel like I already know you!”
“Mikey?” I mouthed out to him before turning to her and plastering on my best thrilled grin. “Really!? God, I wish I could say the same, Ash.”
She smacked Michael’s arm playfully. “Loser! You’ve been keeping me a secret, haven‘t you?”
“Oh, you know our Mikey, always keeping secrets. He‘s gonna have one hell of a career with the CIA,” I joked, smiling so hard my teeth were beginning to hurt.
“Michael was right, you are funny.” She giggled, perfect (sadly not at all frizzy) brown ringlets bouncing as she walked into the kitchen. “I like you already, Ivy.”
And for the second time that night, I really wished I could say the same thing.
Fandom/Verse: Among the Ashes
Characters/Pairings: Micheal/Ashley, Ivy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine.
Note: Can I just say I love that the one pairing I don't have claimed for something keeps talking to me? Silly muses. Oh well, not dwelling because they're shiny new toys. Okay, off to go read Twilight and try to contain my squees of joy. Oh and Ashley is a lovely name, really it is.
If you ask me when it all started, I probably couldn’t tell you. That would be like asking me: “When did you know your name?”, or “When did you learn how to breathe?” It’s just one of those things I just know, something I’ve always known deep down to the marrow of my bones.
I’ve always been in love with this boy who made me short stacks of peanut butter pancakes and held spur-of-the-moment midnight ice cream pig outs with me under a Strawberry Shortcake comforter I had long since outgrown.
There was nothing more perfect than sitting there with vanilla creaminess numbing my tongue, secrets tumbling off of it as easily as the rain trickled down my windowpanes on those cold rainy nights.
Well, maybe not all my secrets…
I can tell you when everything changed, when I realized that one day it just might stop and I’d have to share those secrets with someone else.
It was spaghetti night. Yeah, I know what you‘re thinking. You’re thinking that normal people don’t have spaghetti night, and I probably would be inclined to agree with you if it hadn’t been one of our traditions for as long as I could remember.
You see, Maggie had this thing about improving herself. It wasn’t like she was a bad person, or anything; she just liked learning everything she could, every way she could. Talk shows, self help books with squeaky clean gurus on the covers, classes at the local community college, these were her tools for sculpting a better Margaret Taylor.
The way Michael tells it, spaghetti night started when I was three and he was six. Maggie took a class on Italian cuisine and despite the fact that she got a C, (a travesty she still complains about to this day) she learned to make a pretty mean pasta dish.
Of course, Michael and I like to say that it’s the only thing she knows how to make, but that’s a whole other issue.
On this particular spaghetti night, I was camped in front of the TV watching some ancient Friends rerun, cringing whenever Rachel made an appearance.
“You know, I’ll never understand that,” Michael said, reaching for a handful of popcorn from the bowl of popcorn in my lap. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and I took it as an opportunity to sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. He looked good, not that was a change, but I bet you can probably tell that I’m biased by now.
His shirt was new, but if you want my opinion, a little too preppy. Thin green pinstripes against a crisp white shirt may have worked for some yuppie at Princeton or Yale, but not my Michael. He was a modern day James Dean, after all.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle, or a leather jacket, but he was every bit as handsome, and dreamed just as big.
“Understand what?”
“You, and your irrational Jennifer Aniston hate. She’s America’s sweetheart, you know.”
I snorted, snatching my bowl back. “Could be America’s sweetheart too, if I had as much crap done as she’s had.”
He laughed, ruffling my hair. “You are so weird. And why are you even eating that crap, it’s-”
“Spaghetti night,” I filled in. “I know, I just felt like popcorn.” I shook the bowl a little, holding it out. “I saved you all the good pieces, you know I only like the burnt ones.”
“See, this is why I love you.”
We shared a smile, and he reached over, his thumb brushing the side of my hand accidentally. Lucky for me, the doorbell rang and I had a moment to shake off some (not exactly unpleasant) tingles and remember how to breathe.
“Oh good,” he said, rising from the couch. “She’s here.”
“Did Mags need to get some more milk or something?”
“Even better.” He grinned, kissing my hair. “I think you’re really gonna like her, Ivy.”
My mouth went dry, and the popcorn was suddenly about as appetizing as chalk.
Screw the remembering how to breathe thing because I had already forgotten how to.
The door squeaked open and a girl walked in. A tall, skinny, beautiful girl that I already hated even before she opened her mouth and showed off perfectly white teeth that were practically toothpaste commercial material.
“Ivy? This is my girlfriend, Ashley.”
Let me just say that Ashley has got to be the most unimaginative name ever. I looked it up once, and trust me it is. It apparently means “an ash tree meadow”. How dull is that? Yeah, I know this is coming from a girl with yet another lame plant name, but I never said mine was any better. It’s just…
Have you ever noticed that there are just too many Ashleys?
I mean seriously, think about it. How many Ashleys do you know?
I bet one springs to mind, and I bet she’s probably annoying. Maybe she even thinks she’s clever, a standout from the millions of other Ashleys because she spells it some insane cracked out way, like Ashlee or Ashleigh, but deep down you really know she’s just like all the others.
God, sorry about my little rant there, especially if you're an Ashley, and if that’s the case, I’m sure you’re lovely. But so was this Ashley (Ashley Anders if you want to get technical), and that was the really irritating part.
“Ivy!” She gushed, throwing her arms around me and drawing out the last syllable like she had an entire millennium to say it.
I must have gasped out of shock (or horror) at this complete stranger hugging me like she was my long lost sister and we were on the Maury show, because she quickly let go and blushed adorably (not at all like my splotchy tomato like bouts of embarrassment).
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. It’s just… Mikey talks about you so often, I feel like I already know you!”
“Mikey?” I mouthed out to him before turning to her and plastering on my best thrilled grin. “Really!? God, I wish I could say the same, Ash.”
She smacked Michael’s arm playfully. “Loser! You’ve been keeping me a secret, haven‘t you?”
“Oh, you know our Mikey, always keeping secrets. He‘s gonna have one hell of a career with the CIA,” I joked, smiling so hard my teeth were beginning to hurt.
“Michael was right, you are funny.” She giggled, perfect (sadly not at all frizzy) brown ringlets bouncing as she walked into the kitchen. “I like you already, Ivy.”
And for the second time that night, I really wished I could say the same thing.